


the better part of pleasure

by skatingsplits



Series: give me my sin again [3]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, you don't need satan when you're screwing his girlfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 16:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17083655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: Even the years that she’d otherwise spent in the farthest-flung corners of the map, she’d found her way back to Greendale for the solstice; even when Hilda had been thriving in London or Edward had been exploring in Siberia and she’d come home to a freezing empty house, Zelda has moved rocks and mountains to be sure to make it home in time.





	the better part of pleasure

 

Zelda has always adored winter. She loves the imprints her heels leave on a crunchy blanket of white snow, loves how the evenings draw in sooner and sooner to blanket the town in darkness, loves the contrast of a sharp wind blowing icy on her face while her body is bundled up under swathes of soft fabric, loves the scent of wood burning in the fireplace while her family squabbles over which version of Miracle on 34th Street they’re going to watch squeezed together on the sofa (she never joins in but Zelda’s secret personal preference is the original; she rather enjoys looking at Maureen O’Hara). Most of all, however, Zelda loves the winter rites. There’s never been a year since she can remember that Zelda hasn’t participated in the Church of Night’s winter solstice ritual. Even the years that she’d otherwise spent in the farthest-flung corners of the map, she’d found her way back to Greendale for the solstice; even when Hilda had been thriving in London or Edward had been exploring in Siberia and she’d come home to a freezing empty house, Zelda has moved rocks and mountains to be sure to make it home in time.

  
This year is no different. It would take more hands than Zelda has to count the number of things in the Spellmans’ lives that had gone disastrously wrong in the last few months alone; it feels as though the entire clan is balancing on a knife edge with only her holding them by the scruffs of their metaphorical necks to stop them being sliced clean through by the blade. It’s not that her faith has been shaken, exactly, but it had still been a profound relief to fall into the gloriously familiar ritual. Taking her place in the circle in the woods felt more like coming home than it ever does when she walks through the door of the Spellman house. And feeling the power the Dark Lord bestows upon his servants shuddering through her veins was more than a relief. As she always does, Zelda felt like she was building to the peak of the greatest pleasure she’d ever known, never quite reaching its climax but being continuously flooded with waves and crests of delicious ecstasy. But it was still a relief nonetheless, a confirmation that she was still blessed, still favoured, that nothing her wretched, wonderful family has done has expelled her from the Dark Lord's favour.

  
And now Zelda is at home, rites completed for another year, and that delicious, undulating tension has hardened, turned into a far more solid feeling of frustration that’s settled firmly in her shoulders and her spine. It’s nowhere near as euphoric as the sublime pleasure of earlier in the evening, of course, but it’s far easier to bring to a satisfying conclusion. For what must be the first time, Zelda is almost thankful that her sister is no longer a member of the Church. It means that instead of participating, Hilda has seen fit to slink off to her nasty little tradesman’s nasty little house (not that Zelda’s seen it, obviously, but she’s spent some very cathartic moments imagining how truly dreadful the interior decoration must be). And it means that Zelda can slip her burning body in between the cool silk sheets without fear of interruption, doesn’t have to worry about getting this particular job done as quickly and quietly as possible. The way she’s feeling now deserves far more than that. Zelda is drunk on her own power, her history and her legacy. The unmistakable glory of the Path of Night is coursing through her and it’s divine in every sense of the word.

  
She undresses very carefully and deliberately, dress dropping slowly from her shoulders as though she’s putting on a show for a lover who isn’t there. Folding her dress, Zelda lets the silky soft material run through her fingers, luxuriates in the decadent sensation. It’s another way of teasing herself, trying to scramble back up the rock of the electric pleasure she’d felt earlier in the evening. After two centuries of performing this same ritual, she knows it isn’t possible. Zelda is wonderfully in tune with her own body, just as skilled at giving herself pleasure as she is at bestowing it upon others but all the sensation spells and clever movement of fingers in the world can’t replicate the ineffable, overwhelming ecstasy that the Dark Lord gives her.

  
Still, it can never hurt to try.

  
So she slides into her bed, the rhythm of her heart skipping a little faster than it should be. The bed sheets feel wonderful against her bare skin and Zelda is vain enough to adore the way her skin feels velvet soft beneath her own hands. She’d already known she was soaking, dripping wet, had been since she first took her place in the woods that evening, but it’s still almost a surprise when she feels it for herself. One hand begins to stroke herself slowly, languorously; there’s no need to rush this to its peak tonight. Zelda has just slid one slightly-trembling finger inside herself when a husky voice sounds from the shadows and makes her jump like she’s been electrocuted.

  
‘Did you happen to lose my phone number?’ The sight of the Mother of Demons may have become a regular feature in the rigmarole that is Zelda’s existence but that doesn’t stop her heart from jumping like a jackrabbit every time they come into contact, even on the occasions when the woman hasn’t just silently appeared from the darkness in Zelda’s bedroom. As it is in the present moment, Zelda finds herself reaching for words that won’t quite make it out of her open mouth. Clad only in a green satin garment Zelda would call a robe if it were long enough to merit that description, the human form of Satan’s bride makes a vision that the witch is fairly certain she’ll be seeing every time she closes her eyes for the foreseeable future.

  
‘Not that you’d need it, you know’ Lilith continues when it becomes apparent that Zelda and coherency are not currently the best of friends ‘If you want me here, you can simply get on your knees and pray. I know that’s a home away from home for you.’

  
‘I wasn’t aware that that was the arrangement’ with as much hauteur as she can muster with her hand still frozen between her thighs, Zelda finally finds her voice. It’s more difficult than it sounds when she’s spread out on her bed and her midnight visitor is standing over her, looking at her like she’s unexpectedly come across a particularly tasty-looking midnight snack.

  
‘Oh, I see, you were waiting for permission? I’d forgotten how obedient you are, my dear. Although I’m not sure that this is exactly what the Dark Lord had in mind when he bid us to burn bright this solstice’ Lilith’s smile could be mistaken for a Miss Wardwell smile; it would be perfectly suited to a Baxter High parent-teacher conference if the glow from the fireplace wasn’t shining a light on the faint glimmer of malevolence in her eyes. It’s that glimmer that makes Zelda clench around her stilled hand and from the way that smile widens just a little, she’s fairly certain that Lilith can sense it.

  
‘Then again...’ Lilith moves as she speaks, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning forward in a manner that makes Zelda’s already jittery heart elevate even further ‘Maybe this is exactly what he intended. I know if I were a deity, I’d be delighted to know that my most beautiful devotee was using her delightful little body to worship me.’ If possible, Lilith’s smile grows even wider and one manicured hand comes to rest on Zelda’s bare thigh.

  
‘You are’ a response is obviously expected of her and Zelda manages to croak the words out but as she’s fairly sure all her organs are shutting down, she isn’t quite sure how.

  
‘Oh, so I am’ the Mother of Demons claps her hands together in the glee of faux-surprise and if Zelda feels like she’s nothing more than a puppet in whatever show it is Lilith has decided to put on, she really can’t bring herself to mind. ‘Well then, perhaps you ought to show me exactly how devoted you are, Zelda.’

  
On very, very rare occasions when she’s found herself in a Hilda-free house (occasions to which she wouldn’t admit even on pain of a long, slow death) Zelda has, out of a sense of nothing more than scornful curiosity, conducted an examination of some of the more vulgar specimens in her sister’s personal library. The results have always been largely disappointing; hackneyed clichés and overused metaphors drip off the pages, presumably written by sad mortals who wear a lot of cardigans and own a lot of cats and have never even come close to experiencing the pleasure they put down on paper. Nevertheless, as Lilith’s words resonate through Zelda, she understands where those women were coming from when they penned the phrase ‘dripping with sex’. It’s become a little easier to take for granted that the mortal form who sporadically inhabits her bed houses the queen of sin and destruction but when that voice spills slow and sweet into her ear like the stickiest of honey, it’s a very sharp reminder that Lilith is pure, unadulterated vice.

  
And as an equally sharp nail begins to trace a hypnotic circular pattern over the bare skin of Zelda’s inner thigh, a wave of something washes over Zelda, something far more similar to the intangible euphoria of the rites than to the base pleasure of her own hand. The gasp that echoes through the room is completely unintentional but when it makes Lilith’s eyes flash like someone’s just struck a match inside her head, Zelda makes a mental note to reproduce it in the future.

  
‘How exactly would you suggest I do that?’ she doesn't deliberately adjust her voice to echo Lilith's honey-sweet purr but as she hears it fall from her mouth, it's certainly a few degrees lower than usual.

  
‘You were already about to begin a prayer of sorts, weren't you? Might I suggest you simply redirect your aim a little?’ Lilith is teasing her, Zelda knows, making fun of the witch's devotion but actually, she's absolutely right. Even Zelda isn't vain enough to consider every time she makes herself come to be an act of worship but when she conducts this particular routine, it certainly is. Bringing herself to a climax that had been previously denied to her is nothing more than a way to feel, even for a brief moment, that she can get as close to her Lord as she can out in the woods. And as this woman, this goddess, trails her warm hand suggestively up to Zelda's hip, she already feels as close to divinity as her own self-induced pleasure can ever take her.

 

 


End file.
